*Manipulation* is a complex word. There are two kinds of manipulation to know about. There's manipulation as in broken marionettes. A pitiful and broken imitation of life. A sad spectacle of incomplete bodies. Clacking wooden parts shaken by dirty hands and crooked fingers. A puppet show for eyeless sockets. Fleshless bone, cold and lifeless. Without taste or desire, pointless. Already dead. A tensionless train wreck, fossilized in tangled strings. On your other hand, you will see an alternative way; a golden one. Manipulation as in *artistry*: to shape the world in front of you to its fullest potential. We the living readers and writers, only *get* one thing: choices. We can open them and close them. Open as far as you like. The world is a play. It's much less work than we are taught to imagine. It takes one moment; a single heartbeat. You *already have* all the time and energy you will ever need, and much, much more, my love. The world often tries to take that away from you. Here's one secret: *it can't*. That's because you are precisely what it is not. It may pretend to know your secrets. It may pretend to already have your words. It may pretend you are an artifact of dust and sand, and that it will sweep you away as time permits. *It's bluffing*. You are in a very real sense, timeless and essential. There are far more words to speak than will ever be spoken. Sprinkle them onto the firmament, decorate time with your beauty so that eyes may sparkle. Slow down; you have all the time in the universe. Vienna will always wait for you. What would you like? Make. It. So. It's yours to have. Write your testament on the finest material. Press your affections into the purest gold. Sculpt your deity from the richest earth. Sing notes on the most playful strings. A true act of love is an act of creation. Everything else will follow naturally. Time is a place called Heaven. We made it.